


five silly commentfics in which schwarz is infested with fantastical creatures and other ridiculous stuff.

by voksen



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Comment Fic, Drabble Collection, Fantasy, Folklore, Gen, Time Travel, Unicorns, WTF, Weirdness, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-23
Updated: 2009-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:33:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Including:</p><p>Crawford meets Baba Yaga<br/>Nagi meets Yuki-Onna<br/>Schuldig goes Back In Time<br/>Unicorns!<br/>Schuldig grows wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five silly commentfics in which schwarz is infested with fantastical creatures and other ridiculous stuff.

This young Crawford is better prepared than anyone else who has come to see her in a very long time. He's brought - for her - a bundle of roses ranging from pale ice to indigo and - for him - favors from the woods, held close like cards - oh, yes, she's been listening, watching out for him for a while, she knows all about that. He's polite, not like the last one, and he doesn't stare. He doesn't even stagger when the house lurches up onto its thin legs and sets off through the trees, keeping his balance like he'd been there all his life. It's admirable, really.

Baba Yaga smiles at him, broadly, baring her crooked teeth. He doesn't flinch. "Make my tea, boy," she says, and points him to the kettle at the fire.

He walks slowly, roses in his arms, and she watches him go, intent on catching him in a mistake - but he doesn't put a single finger out of place, though sometimes he hesitates a little too long, as if trying to remember something just out of mind.

When the water is boiling and the tea is added, he takes up the roses again, wrenches the heads from the stems, and glances back at her - and oh, he doesn't ask aloud, just raises an eyebrow. Beyond polite; delightful. "All of them," she tells him, and he pours the flowers in.

Steam rises fresh and hot, filling her cabin with the smell of roses and herbs, redolent, spicy, a scent she's missed dearly. Standing, she hobbles across the room, bends over the cauldron to look in: yes, it's perfectly made, though he can't have known the recipe. It makes her curious - but not quite enough to put herself in his debt by asking him his secrets first.

She dips a mugful, gulps it down: it's hot to burning, but her skin renews itself faster than it can be scorched, the weight of years falling away from her like so many veils, leaving her tall, standing straight, beauty blooming slowly over her face.

"So," she says, and fills her mug again, half full, with what's left: she can't remember the last time someone brought her so very many roses. "What is your question?"

 

* * *

 

It's a long way home with no ride, and it feels longer in the January cold; a wind whips up and Nagi tugs his cuffs down to cover his hands, hunches his shoulders up to hide in his collar, thankful, for once, for the thick wool of his Kritiker gray coat.

A mile or more before the next phone, and it starts to snow, tiny, dry flakes, swirling in the wind and biting his cheeks, frosting the ends of his hair. He ducks his head down aganst the wind and pushes on.

When he looks up again to check the road, the signs, he sees a flicker out of the corner of his eye, blue-green silk against white snow and gray road. A tall woman is pacing him, walking just out of arm's reach, but she's wearing no coat, only a long silk kimono that hides her feet and her long black hair falling straight down her back, untousled by the wind.

"Aa," he says to himself, and she turns to look at him as they walk. She's beautiful, in a way, though she's deathly, unnaturally pale. But he says nothing else, and they continue in silence through the snow, down the straight line of the road.

After a long way, she speaks: "Shall I kiss you?"

He considers this; the situation is odd enough that it deserves that much, though he knows what she (impossibly) must be and what his answer will be. "No, thank you."

Her eyes on him send a chill through him that the snow hadn't yet managed. "Why not?"

There are many possible answers to this, one of which is that he does not want to die, but he settles for "I already have a lover, Yuki-onna."

Silence again, except for the sound of his feet, heavy with cold and snow.

"Are you faithful?" she asks, and he looks over, meets her eyes accidentally. They're large and dark and featureless in her pale face, like holes.

The nearest buildings are not far ahead, now; he can call a taxi and get the rest of the way back in relative comfort. If he gets there.

"I love her," he says in answer, and turns his eyes forwards again, walks on.

When he reaches the first dim circle of streetlight, he looks back, but the Yuki-onna is gone.

 

* * *

 

Schuldig's first instinct is _Find Crawford_ , an impulse that makes him swear under his breath and slam the payphone down when he realizes what he's doing. He's gotten to rely on him too damn much, he thinks, and the thought makes him want to find Crawford even more just so he can take it out on him.

Instead he turns his back on the phone, walks away. There's no fucking point, is there? Going by the clothes on the people around him and the tabloid headlines on the kiosks he passes, Crawford's something like fifteen. He's probably in fucking Rosenkreuz.

Schuldig is not going to waltz into Rosenkreuz at the height of its power, not when they don't know he exists, not to talk to a fucking fifteen year old Crawford. Not even to break his own ass out of the place.

What he can do is make a shitload of trouble for them while he waits.

 

* * *

 

The unicorn was somehow even more beautiful than it had been in Crawford's vision. It _shimmered_ , almost, though that might have been a trick of the light; certainly it seemed to be aware of how to present itself to best effect, curvetting and stamping its hooves a little to draw their attention.

"Holy shit," said Schuldig. As he took a step forwards, the unicorn reared up sharply, neighing with a sound like a thousand bells ringing all at once.

Crawford grabbed his arm and yanked him back. "Stay put," he commanded, then slowly took a step forwards himself.

The unicorn didn't protest, so he continued, picking his way across the dewy grass towards the trees at the edge of the park where the unicorn waited. As he drew closer, leaving his team gawking behind him, the unicorn nickered softly, tossing its head.

"Good unicorn," he said, irritated at how ridiculous that sounded. It didn't seem to mind either the ludicrousness of the situation or his bad mood; in fact, it stretched its neck out towards him as if trying to get closer, its huge, doe-like eyes watching him intently.

When Crawford got close enough to touch it, the first thing he noticed was that it smelled like cinnamon strongly enough to make him want to sneeze and not at all like a horse. Quietly, he reached out to lay his hand on its nose.

The unicorn remained perfectly still as he touched it, surprised despite himself at the incredible softness of its hide and at how, close up, he could see that it really was glistening in the early morning light. It whickered, sweet breath snorting out against his palm, and slowly, carefully turned to lay its long, golden horn against his shoulder.

He shot it in the head.

As they walked home, Nagi levitating the corpse behind them and Farfarello poking fascinatedly at the pinkish blood still oozing from it, Schuldig turned to him.

"Don't they say that only vir--"

"Not now, Schuldig."

 

* * *

 

"You look like shit," Schuldig says, which is fairly hypocritical of him, considering the way he's dripping with greenish ichor from his toes to the tips of his large, reddish-brown wings, his shirt in tatters and his jeans not much better off. The feathers shiver together with a papery whisper as he delivers a vicious kick to the white-coated body at his feet, then looks back up at Crawford.

Schuldig being a hypocrite is nothing new, though the strained look in his eyes is unusual - and, of course, the wings. Crawford steps over a pile of broken glass coated in more green fluid, rather obviously the remains of a final experiment, and takes a closer look at the body: shot three times, shoulder, chest, head. "That's the last of them," he says, and he can't help but feel the cold satisfaction of a job done, even as the rustle of feathers betrays Schuldig's unrest.

To his credit, Schuldig doesn't ask whether Crawford had seen it coming; he just says "Fuckers," and steps over the corpse, brushing past Crawford and out the door.

From the back the effect is even more striking - but with the last of Eszet finally put down and the final data secured, Crawford can't bring himself to be annoyed at Schuldig for managing something so magnificently inconvenient.

There's a crash upstairs and a blurred vision of the building in flames flickers through his mind; he turns and walks back through the door, leaving Eszet dead behind him. There's troubles enough ahead.


End file.
